


Postscript

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Study in Pink, Episode Related, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-19
Updated: 2011-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A handful of explanations and admissions the morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postscript

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

It's mid-afternoon by the time Sherlock emerges from his room, and even then, John is only just making the first coffee of the day. Curiously, John's slept well, though he's not quite ready to attempt to analyse just why that is. It could be due to the adrenaline rush the night before and the inevitable come down, or it could just be because he only sleeps well if he's killed someone.

“Coffee?” He offers amiably, putting self-analysis out of his head for the moment.  
“Milchkaffee.” Sherlock responds, depositing himself on the couch, eyes half-closed.  
“Soy or semi-skimmed?”  
“Hmm? Oh, soy.”

John isn't entirely unused to non-English breakfast orders being shot in his direction. He once upon a time had a Russian girlfriend who'd occasionally attempt to talk to him in Russian first thing in the morning and, if he looked at her blankly for too long, would then proceed to rattle off her regular Starbucks order instead. Sherlock requesting a milky coffee in German is at least understandable, in opposed to long sentences containing only a handful of words that John's certain he ought to have recognised at the time.

“You're not.” Sherlock comments when John hands him his coffee.  
“What?”  
“You're not... you know. Things, thing, even.” Sherlock waves a hand absently.  
“I'm not?”  
“No. Wouldn't sleep with you if you were.”  
“Right.”

Not that they've slept together or, to John's knowledge at least, have any plans to. Settling himself into his chair more comfortably, John supposes that Sherlock is just one of those people who don't make much sense when they've just woken up.

“A murderer.” Sherlock announces at length. “What did I say? You keep looking at me like that.”  
“Nothing. Nothing.” John smiles into his mug.  
Sherlock clicks his fingers. “That thing. You'll... get use to that. Words. In the morning.”  
“I'm sure we'll manage.”  
“Good. Good- wait, did I-” Sherlock shakes his head abruptly. “Bad form.” He mutters mostly to himself.  
“Oh?”  
“That thing, that I said.” Followed by a nervous gulp of coffee.  
“Which one?”  
“The one. You know. Sorry.”  
“Apology accepted.”  
“Right. Good. Unless...” Sherlock's eyes narrow.  
“Yes, I am taking it rather well for a straight man.”  
“Right. Do we have any toast?”

Mornings, or at least whenever constitutes a morning, with Sherlock are going to be interesting at least. For all the excitement and adventure of haring off around London fighting crime, it's the moments like these that will qualify whether they're capable of sharing living space. Sherlock doesn't, after all, seem particularly bothersome when he's just woken up. He apparently doesn't make too much sense verbally at first but what he does say doesn't strike John as being too fragmented to parse. John's always found it useful to have a communicative, rather than uncommunicative, companion in the morning. It tends to make practical matters far simpler.

Toast and second cups of coffee finished, John is aware that he'd be quite content to doze off where he sits, if only something wasn't nagging at him. He's been picking over the events of the past day now, carefully, as a method of mentally ordering them in some fashion. Last night they'd discussed it only briefly and in such an off-hand, rapid, fashion that John didn't quite have a chance to take stock of the situation or rationalise it in any way. He'd shot a man, which was, in the greater scheme of things, probably, regrettably necessary. He'd met a 'minor government functionary' who'd made him think of Baudelaire, by way of Kevin Spacey. He'd ineffectively hit on a woman who preferred her Blackberry to regular conversation. He'd also realised, rather late in the game, that one Detective Inspector Lestrade was suspiciously unassuming, and now, he's sharing a flat with the world's only consulting detective.

It takes the sound of Sherlock puttering about in the kitchen for John to realise that he must have dozed off. Glancing over his shoulder he's surprised to see Sherlock actually washing the dishes. The kettle's on again and John's mug is sitting on the counter.

“Did you want something else or just another coffee?”  
“Coffee's fine.” John responds automatically, before supposing that three coffees in quick succession might not be such a good idea.  
Sherlock stops rinsing dishes for a moment and peers at John.  
“What?”  
“There's lapsang souchong as well.”  
“Really? I wouldn't mind some of that.”  
“Mycroft drinks it.”  
“You keep tea for your brother? Didn't think you two-”  
“He sends me things. I don't throw them out.”

Tea in hand, John's loathed to admit that it's well and truly over-brewed, since Sherlock is being so very amiable at the moment. Of course Sherlock notices, though all he does is settle himself more comfortably on the couch. Presumably, John supposes, Mycroft prefers his lapsang souchong very strong and bitter. Not so much flavoured with smoke but rather tasting of charred bark.

“There's ginger coffee, if you'd prefer.”  
“Ginger... coffee?”  
“Lestrade.” Sherlock states simply, as if that's a self-evident explanation.

John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock could tell that he liked Chinese tea by the end of their first meeting, so he's not going to be surprised by the fact that Sherlock apparently keeps a stock of drinks for his brother and Lestrade. That line of thought reminds John of something, the same something that had been bothering him earlier.

“Mate de coca.” John says aloud.  
Sherlock studies John over the rim of his mug.  
“It's... well.”  
“A plausible reason for testing positive for cocaine.”  
“Yeah.”

The box tucked away at the back of a cupboard had caught John's attention, because while he'd heard of it, he'd never actually seen it in anyone's possession. Of course the joke was that if you were going to take opiates, you ought to start eating poppy seed bagels on a regular, visible basis, but actually going to those lengths was another thing. Besides, John's well aware of just how popular recreational cocaine use is these days, and just how accessible and relatively affordable it is. Surely, he tells himself, there must be something more to it, to Lestrade's impromptu drugs bust and Sherlock's controlled, but visible, panic in response.

“Yesterday, when Lestrade... you know.”  
Sherlock smirks. “Never trust CID. He could have planted anything.”  
“Really?”  
“And any trace amounts on him would be due to my supposedly contaminated flat. Even traces in his bloodstream would be due to a gum test to verify what was in the bag.”  
“Wait- are you telling me that-”  
“You'll note he didn't let them into my bedroom. Not a very good drugs raid if they're confined to searching the kitchen and the toilet.”  
“Right. So you...?”  
“So I what?”  
“You've got an excuse for any cocaine traces so...?”  
“Ket.”  
“Really?” John can't hide his surprise.  
Sherlock laughs. “Of course not. Who takes _ket_ anyway?”  
“People who find themselves crawling across car parks at four in the morning?”  
Sherlock sips his tea thoughtfully. “I've never seen the appeal.”  
“You don't seem the type anyway.”

Still, John can't help but wonder if there's something else. Coca tea might not be the perfect excuse but it would at least be some sort of justification for any incriminating test results. It would be reason enough to stall proceedings, briefly, for just long enough for Sherlock to contact Mycroft at least. Then again, Sherlock has been implying that Lestrade isn't particularly incorruptible himself.

“Lestrade does, as well?” John asks, haltingly.  
“Diazepam.”  
John pulls a face.  
Sherlock laughs at him.  
“You're kidding.”  
“Absolutely. We're both utterly boring about it. Just a few lines every now and again. Nothing else, not even pills.”  
“Pills are cheaper.”  
“They make him angry.”  
“Because they're cheaper?”  
“No, just angry.”  
“But they're meant to...” John shrugs helplessly.  
“He shouts at cars.”  
“Really? You're kidding again.”  
Sherlock grins. “Not a chance.”

John isn't sure what to make of that, though he is aware that a sensible, scientific part of his mind is filling the information away for further examination. MDMA is meant to produce feelings of euphoria, confidence and contentment. It's the sort of drug that's meant to produce an exaggerated uplifting effect. Of course it's possible that there's something in Lestrade's brain chemistry that exacerbates one aspect and suppresses, or at least doesn't elevate others quite as much. It's entirely plausible, especially since differences in effects can be seen with things like caffeine or marijuana on individuals with ADHD, in opposed to the rest of the population. It's something that John promises himself that he'll look into later.

“It doesn't bother you?”  
John shrugs. “White collar drug use. Not that surprising.”  
Sherlock hums thoughtfully to himself. “You assumed I hadn't, and _that_ surprised you.”

There lies the truth of the matter. John had been more surprised at Sherlock's apparent lack of vices than anything else. He'd barely believed the implication when Sherlock had told him to shut up during that makeshift drugs raid.

“I use to, more frequently.”  
“And then you stopped.”  
“Bastards started spraying the toilet lids with WD40.”  
“You really... off toilet lids?”  
“If the cistern was no good for it.”

John considers that. Finds that he can actually picture it: Sherlock squashed into a cubicle at some trendy Soho bar, with two other men, squinting in the harsh bathroom lighting and listening out for a warning from a fourth man, stationed on the other side of the door.

“It's not half as interesting as your fantasy. Or homoerotic for that matter.”  
“Oh...”

John has a moment to realise just how disappointed he's sounded before Sherlock is laughing at him again, though the warm smile that follows that outburst rather takes the edge off it.

“Of course that was around the same time that I started getting bored of clubs anyway.”  
“And the gay clubs are just as annoying as the straight ones, but with more gay people.”  
“Except on straight night.”  
“When they're worse.”

Picking up both mugs, John heads back into the kitchen.

“Manchester.” He says over his shoulder, by way of explanation, as he gives both mugs a quick rinse.  
Sherlock snorts. “Deansgate Locks.”  
“Typical.”  
“The village was full of students!” Sherlock protests.  
“You've probably even been to that bar at the Hilton.”  
“Of course. Is that a problem?”  
“Typical.” John repeats, with an amused grin.

This isn't, of course, the way that John had intended to start this conversation, not that he's certain he meant to say anything at all. Flatmates ought to know general details about each other at any rate, enough so that they can either learn to tolerate their differences or quickly and efficiently go their separate ways.

“Always helps to know if your flatmate's going to bring his boyfriend home one night, so you can avoid the awkwardness of a naked police officer walking out of your bathroom in the morning.”  
“Lestrade's your boyfriend?” John enquires conversationally, still pondering the options of more tea or something else to eat, in the kitchen.  
“No.”  
“Oh, right then.”

The conversation ends there more or less. They've both said what needed to be said without ever really saying it. It's enough for them to get along with anyway and, eventually, it's John who manages inadvertently, in a roundabout way, to raise the issue again anyway.

 

It's been a few months of companionable adventure and, sometimes, less companionable domestic arrangements, when John wakes from a well deserved lie-in to the sound of Sherlock's yelling.

“Put some bloody clothes on! You're my damn brother!”  
Whatever Mycroft says in reply is pitched low enough that John can't quite hear it.  
“I don't need to- My _eyes_. You bastard! You utter-” The rest of whatever Sherlock is going to say is swallowed in a wail of despair.

John can guess the chain of events and Mycroft's gleeful expression as he re-enters the room, completely naked, qualify John's assumption.

“Did you really have to?” John asks, as Mycroft slips back into bed. “You know what he's like.”  
“Not deliberately.” Mycroft responds mildly.  
“Right.”  
The completely undignified giggle that follows belies Mycroft's statement.

Sherlock will be hell to deal with once John goes downstairs. Modest to the extreme, it certainly doesn't help that Mycroft seems to take great delight in teasing his brother about it.

“You.” John prods Mycroft. “Are a typical, bullying, older brother.”  
“You're perfectly correct.”  
“Unrepentant too.”

Downstairs the front door slams.

“Heck.” John starts to sit up, only to be pushed back down by Mycroft.  
“At last. I was wondering how long it would take him.” Mycroft arranges himself more comfortably, half sprawled on top of John.  
John sighs. “Go on, what are you plotting?”  
“He's gone to see Lestrade I fancy, and complain about how beastly I'm being to him.”  
“You're... trying to set them up?”  
“Of course. What kind of a brother would I be if I wasn't?”  
“One who doesn't flash his own sibling in the hall.”  
“Needs must, my dear. Needs must.”

John laughs softly. He's not going to argue, not least of all with the one man who seems capable of manipulating his ornery flatmate into doing anything.

“Good.” Mycroft mutters into the curve of John's neck.  
“La plus belle...” John can't remember the rest.  
“La plus belle des ruses du diable est de vous persuader qu'il n'existe pas. And I take that as a compliment.”  
John smiles, pulling Mycroft closer. “Of course you do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kevin Spacey's character in _The Usual Suspects_ quotes Baudelaire: “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.”
> 
> Sherlock presumably keeps a stock of Gold Kili's Instant Honey Ginger Latte for Lestrade.


End file.
